


Listen to the Fireplace Roar

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel It's Cold Outside, Biting, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), F/F, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Love Bites, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snowed In, Vaginal Fingering, gentle biting I guess, like with teeth but not super hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: Aziraphale flattens her features into her bitchiest unimpressed look. “Trying to tempt me to sin, wily serpent?”Crowley groans long and absolutely without any hint of a whinge, whatsoever and flops her arms dramatically over the back of the sofa. “Angel, come on.” Despite herself, she feels a genuine pout tugging at her mouth. “It’s cold outside.”ORThe wives get snowed in and get toasty in front of the fire. ;)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 89
Collections: Apple-bottom Jorts, Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	Listen to the Fireplace Roar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelayneSeahawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/gifts).



> A gift for the lovely [MelayneSeahawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk) for the GO-Events server mini event "Good Snowmens" gift exchange. I hope you enjoy your snowed-in steamy wives! :D
> 
> Thanks as well to my beta for this fic, [RainingPrince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince)!

"It's snowing!" Aziraphale exclaims with all the unfettered delight of an ethereal being who can, when she so desires, easily walk on water—frozen or otherwise—instead of slog through it.

Crowley looks up from her slightly wine-bleary contemplation of the crackling fireplace and sees Aziraphale standing near the front door, the upturn of her nose nearly pressed against the frosty glass of one of the abutting windows. At least she managed to complete her mission to the cottage's tiny kitchen to retrieve the chocolates. However, the box is listing dangerously in her hand.

"All the more reason to get back to the fire, then," Crowley observes and rubs her feet over the cushions on the open end of the sofa where a bit of angelic warmth still clings.

Aziraphale hums to herself and then lifts the box to begin toying with the ribbon that holds it closed with her free hand. "I should probably be off, if I'm to make it back to the boarding house before it starts sticking properly. I'm losing daylight."

"Psh, just stay over. You wouldn't make it back before dark on that relic anyway."

Aziraphale spares her a cutting glance over her shoulder. "It's a perfectly serviceable velocipede—"

"Were you not, just this afternoon, complaining about wasting your miracle quota so you can avoid bringing it by the repair shop once a week?"

"The young man who manages the counter _insists_ on flirting, despite my attempts to gently dissuade him."

"He has a thing for soft butches, I take it?"

Aziraphale rolls not just her eyes but practically her whole head, but at least she's turned away from the window to give Crowley her full attention. Crowley grins and picks up the angel's glass of wine from the side table to dangle it temptingly over the back of the couch.

"Mrs. Johnson doesn't like when ladies stay out overnight," Aziraphale says, but her eyes are fixed on the glass.

"You're just visiting another lady friend. Nothing sssscandalous about that," Crowley counters. "You think she would prefer you risk breaking your neck trying to get back?"

"She barely tolerates that I wear _trousers_. It doesn't bear thinking what sort of groveling I'll have to do if I'm not back before curfew without clearing it with her first. I can't risk getting kicked out before my assignment with Lucinda is complete."

"So, give her a call. Telephone's right there next to the door. She can't object if you play by her rules, can she?"

"She can, and she would. Really, my dear, as if you haven't walked beside humanity for nearly six thousand years." Aziraphale leaves off the withering glare to look down at the box of chocolates, over to the telephone perched on its dedicated table and accompanying chair, and back to Crowley. "Although you did just open up that new bottle of port. I'd hate for it to go to waste."

Crowley gives her a sympathetic pout. "F'you want, I could do a little"—She waggles the fingers of her free hand in the air with a suggestive bounce of her eyebrows.—"down the telephone line while you talk to her. She could miraculously decide getting her knickers in a twist over the whole thing is more trouble than it's worth."

"Crowley!"

"What? It's for a good cause! If you have to waste miracles getting back safely, you might not have enough left to complete your mission without Gabriel crawling up your backside. Think of poor Lucinda."

" _You_ could miracle my bicycle," Aziraphale points out, so wound up she forgets to use the outdated term. " _You_ don't have quotas."

"No, but I do have an open bottle of excellent port, those fabulous chocolates you so kindly brought with you, a roaring fire, and…" She smirks and touches the tip of her suspiciously slender and divoted tongue to her upper lip. "I can do _really_ weird things with my tongue."

Aziraphale flattens her features into her bitchiest unimpressed look. "Trying to tempt me to sin, wily serpent?"

Crowley groans long and absolutely without any hint of a whinge, whatsoever and flops her arms dramatically over the back of the sofa. "Angel, come _on_." Despite herself, she feels a genuine pout tugging at her mouth. "It's cold outside."

"Oh! Well…" Aziraphale says, blinking rapidly. "Are _you_ cold, my dear? This cottage you're renting is awfully drafty." She casts reproving glances at the snug, absolutely weatherproofed and infernally insulated corners of the cottage as though bearing witness to Dickensian levels of draft whistling through the eaves. "If the fire should go out before dawn, why, you could catch your death."

She tsks and with a firm nod bustles from the door back around to the front of the sofa and sits practically on top of Crowley. The demon yelps in surprise as she fights to keep the glass of port from making a swan dive onto the plush rug spread across the floor, but submits to being tucked into the angel's plush side with an arm draped protectively over her shoulders.

"You're right," Aziraphale says stoutly and plucks the glass of port from Crowley's death grip. "It is abysmally cold outside." She takes a healthy swallow and raises her eyebrows inquiringly at Crowley's slack-jawed expression.

Never one to look a gift temptation in the mouth, Crowley rallies and slouches more comfortably against Aziraphale's side, going so far as to slither one arm between the angel's waist and the sofa cushion and bring the other up to start plucking with teasing fingers at the ends of the angel's tartan bow tie.

"You still need to call your landlady? Assure her of your unassailable virtue?" she teases.

Aziraphale's eyes shine bright with reflected firelight, turning her tiny smirk certifiably impish. "In good time. Now, you made some claims about your tongue, my dear girl. I'm afraid I'll need a demonstration to determine whether you speak true or are merely falling prey to the sin of pride."

Crowley gleefully sets to work proving her case.

* * *

Unfortunately, between breaks for telephone calls, chocolates, and new bottles of alcohol, they don't make it past enthusiastic snogging and some more earnest than effective above-the-waist petting before the alcohol does them in.

Crowley wakes the next morning flat on her back, pinned between the sofa cushions and a half-dressed angel snoring and drooling into her hair. One of them, at least, managed to pull the thick quilt draped over the arm of the sofa over them before they passed out. Crowley sends out vague thanks to… someone, for that, because they did end up letting the fire go out in the night, and despite the owner's and Crowley's added best efforts, it is fucking freezing in the cottage.

She hunkers down under both angel and quilt defensively and tucks her cold nose into Aziraphale's uptight curls, which at some point were tugged free from the vaguely Lucille Ball-inspired half-chignon she typically keeps them pinned up in. (Crowley refuses to refer to the style as "The Poodle" on principle.) Her head is pounding, there's a taste like rotten cherries mixed with petrol in her cotton-dry mouth, and despite her continued efforts to threaten the mortifying back-half of the digestive system into submission, she feels the insistent urge to pee.

"Buggering fuck," she hisses into the angel's hair and then reflexively kisses the spot in not-quite apology. "Angel, wake up," she says anyway, because like hell is she dealing with all this alone. What's the point of having a rival-turned-friend-with-benefits-because-we-daren't-say-the-L-word if you couldn't share both sloppy makeouts and hangover misery?

Aziraphale grunts before jerking slightly and making a damning slurping sound as she awkwardly turns her face into the quilt and furtively rubs.

"Crowley? Oh, good lord." She unearths a hand from the bowels of the quilt and presses the heel of her hand to her eye socket. "Did we forget to sober up?"

"Yeah." Crowley snakes her hands under the angel's open shirt and silk vest to stroke her luscious waist apologetically.

"I don't have enough miracles to make all of it go away," she whimpers.

Crowley kisses the tip of her nose. "Nope."

Aziraphale cracks an eye open to scowl at her.

"I can start the fire and, er, conjure a fry-up? Some tea? An Aspirin?"

"Yes."

Crowley insists on waving her own hangover away and the fire back to life before embarking on any angelically minded restorative work, and then it's another five-minute battle to convince a miserable, clingy Aziraphale to give up her demonic cuddle toy. From there, however, she's able to leave the angel baking in a quilted cocoon in front of the fire while she scares up food, beverage, and medicine from the kitchen and bathroom, respectively.

By the time she's able to present Aziraphale the spoils of her miraculous hunting, the angel's clothes are mostly back to rights, even if she's left off her tweed coat in favor of keeping the quilt draped over her shoulders like a cape. The loss of easy access is a damn shame, in Crowley's opinion.

After she's deposited the angel's tray of goodies on the side table, she spares a moment to swap her slinky house dress from the day before for an equally slinky floor-length negligee with an indulgently plush dressing gown. At some point, her angel is going to be feeling recovered enough to pick back up where they left off last night, and she is going to be _ready_.

So, when Aziraphale announces shortly after mopping her plate clean with her last bite of toast that she's leaving, Crowley squawks in immediate protest.

"Angel, it _snowed_ last night!"

"I'm sure you can miracle me some boots I can claim to be borrowing. Or some snow shoes, if it's thick enough on the ground," Aziraphale counters reasonably. "I do have a job to do, Crowley. The snow will likely keep most people indoors today. It's a perfect time to catch Lucinda and have another heart-to-heart."

Crowley groans and collapses back onto the arm of the sofa. When she feels the angel's coat beneath her, she presses back against it stubbornly to keep it pinned in place. Aziraphale meets her scowling pout with tattered grace as she sips the last of her tea, looking much recovered but still a little gray around the edges.

"Can't go back looking obviously hungover," she points out.

Aziraphale's mouth pinches up, but she sets her teacup back on the tray decisively. "I'm sure the brisk walk will take care of the last of it, or at least be excuse enough for looking done in when I return."

"It's cold outside?" she ventures as a last resort.

"Darling, please," Aziraphale says on a sigh, a little of her true misery at the situation leaking out.

Crowley relents, instantly. It's rare for her to get even this much of Aziraphale's time when she's on specific missions, given their tendency to get… carried away and forgetful of obligations as a result. Several close calls over the centuries means they tend to reserve meetups for when they're either not working or the jobs aren't as time-bound.

"Yeah, all right, come on. Let's see how bad it is, and I'll miracle you whatever you like." She even slouches upright and holds out the angel's coat for her to put back on. This earns her a grateful, if more chaste than she'd prefer, kiss for her grudging support.

Then, Aziraphale opens the door to the cottage and reveals a solid wall of white.

"Ah."

"Huh."

A check of the side door that leads off the kitchen reveals the same. Crowley even scrambles into the shallow attic space to peer out the small, grimey window just under the eaves.

"S'not just us," she reports when she climbs back down. "The next few cottages aren't quite as bad—they all have at least one door facing away from the wind—but there's a good hundred centimeters on the ground even where there isn't drifting."

Aziraphale frowns. "That seems… unlikely."

Crowley squints as she tries to recall some of their conversation from the night before. "Ahhhhhh, we might have been discussing previous record blizzards late last night. Maybe, er, unconsciously…" She waves a hand in a vague whirling motion in the air.

"We?" Aziraphale demands.

Crowley pulls a face. "Well, I don't know, do I? Sometimes things just… happen… if we're not paying attention. _You_ know." She gives Aziraphale a significant look. There are quite a lot of unnamed but definitely remembered instances packed into it, equally shared.

Aziraphale blushes but doesn't argue further. There isn't much left to be said, after all. No one would expect a woman of good breeding to hoof it back in these conditions, and it would be too conspicuous to try to miracle her back directly to such a crowded building.

Instead, the angel wordlessly crosses to the phone and picks it up. Crowley sidles up next to her and hooks her chin over Aziraphale's free shoulder, both to give the line a demonic nudge to ensure it connects to the boarding house and to shamelessly eavesdrop as the angel gives an update and tuts and frets along with the landlady about the unusual weather not just the town but the adjacent city is experiencing. There are half-hearted prayers that conditions will be much improved tomorrow, and stern reminders for Aziraphale to thank her friend for putting up with her. Crowley has to smother her snigger into the Aziraphale's shirtsleeve.

"Well," Aziraphale exclaims when she hangs up, "I suppose we'll just have to find ways to keep ourselves occupied."

Crowley tips her head to catch Aziraphale's eye and waggles her eyebrows lasciviously. Aziraphale smiles back, but it's her bastard smile; she brandishes the pack of cards that had been squirreled away in the drawer of the telephone table.

"Ugh, you're no fun."

"Some of us still feel like death warmed over, dearest."

They set up shop on the rug in front of the fireplace, with nibbles and cocoa at hand and additional quilts retrieved from the neglected bedroom to drape over their shoulders. The card games start out respectable, requiring a modicum of skill and with plenty of time to sip delicately at beverages while they contemplate moves.

Aziraphale is ruthless at cribbage and insufferably smug about it, so Crowley proposes they switch to gin rummy and proceeds to crow obnoxiously as her wins pile up.

Eventually, patience and tempers deteriorate, and with them the relative sophistication of the games. They duel tetchily over Snap, manage a few grim rounds of War, and finally Aziraphale loudly declares an armistice.

"Oh, we can quit while you're ahead, is that it?" Crowley gripes, but readily props a pillow against Aziraphale's crossed ankles so she can stretch out comfortably in front of the fire for a spite nap. Competition and bickering is all well and good, but they've learned better over the last few centuries when to lay down metaphorical arms before either says or does something too cutting.

"My dear, you bared your fangs at me—and not in the fun way," Aziraphale returns mildly as she props her back against the foot of the sofa and cracks open a book scavenged from the cottage owner's meager collection.

The oblique reference to some of their kinkier pursuits goes a long way toward mollifying Crowley, who was beginning to despair of getting any up-close-and-personal time before this interlude comes to its inevitable end. Still, a quick nap to further cool tempers and allow Aziraphale's hangover to mellow wouldn't be amiss. She leans awkwardly to press a grudging kiss to the top of Aziraphale's ridiculous, tartan-wool-socked toes before settling back down for a kip.

"Sleep well, darling."

* * *

Crowley wakes up some time later a little groggy and a lot grumpy, but it's the sort of directionless irritation that typically accompanies an ill-advised nap, so that's all right. She grumbles wordlessly and stretches on the rug, relishing in the slight burn in her corporation's muscles and tendons as sleep stiffness gives way and she's able to collapse even more bonelessly on her belly. A bit more wriggling and she reconfigures her sprawl so she's aligned with the angel's stretched-out legs rather than squared off. She wraps her arms around the pillow to prop her torso up, digs her toes under Aziraphale's left thigh, and contemplates the fire.

A soft hand lands on her heel.

"Did you have a restful nap?" Aziraphale murmurs.

"Yeah," she mumbles. "Your book any good?"

"Very," Aziraphale says warmly with a brief squeeze to Crowley's heel.

Crowley grunts and untucks her toes to press her foot more firmly into Aziraphale's hand in wordless demand.

The angel hums to herself, and Crowley hears the rustle and thump of the book getting set aside on the floor. Then, there are two hands cradling Crowley's foot and a strong pair of thumbs pressing insistently into her arch in a way that sends sensation zinging up the length of her leg, warming her through.

"Oooh, fantastic," she hisses and wriggles backward on her belly so not just her feet but her calves are within easy reach.

She turns her head on the pillow just in time to see Aziraphale's wool-clad feet twitch as the angel gives a pleased wiggle. Feeling a little helpless with the urge, Crowley frees an arm from her death grip of the pillow so she can drape it along the angel's legs and clutch at her far ankle.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale has levered Crowley's leg so her shin is resting across the angel's plush belly. Angelic fingers press chord structures into the sole of Crowley's foot while a palm drags firm and hot up and down the length of her calf, making her nerves vibrate and gooseflesh break out over her back.

Crowley squirms and huffs out a breath and endures.

The rhythmic press and release across muscles still slightly tense from sleep is delicious, and relaxing. Still, even though Aziraphale's touches remain strictly sensual, Crowley can't help but feel a zing low in her belly with every incidental caress to her instep, nor a quivering sense of anticipation every time Aziraphale's fingers sweep over the swell of her calf, wondering if this time they might keep traveling up across the sensitive skin behind her knee and underneath the rucked-up hems of her negligee and dressing gown.

Soon, nearly every precise, kneading press of Aziraphale's fingertips is echoed by a sympathetic throb where she _really_ wants those fingers to be rubbing. Her face flushes, and she redirects the urge to squirm into burying her face in the pillow instead. This, of course, causes her torso to shift and she's subjected to the fiery zip of her nipples rubbing against silk. For someone's sake...

She grits her teeth and holds out for a full five minutes before she's so worked up, wet and aching, that a choked-off whine escapes her throat and she squeezes convulsively at both the pillow and Aziraphale's ankle.

Azirphale's hands still, one cradling her foot and the other resting just below the back of Crowley's knee.

"Dearest?" Her voice is a little husky, and Crowley wonders if the angel has been struggling just as much as she has been, fighting to keep the massage strictly sensual and not sexual. It's like magic how quickly she goes from being frustrated to gleeful.

Crowley shifts her hips in a way that just happens to create a little more space between her thighs. Aziraphale's fingertips brush against the thin skin behind Crowley's knee as she moves, making her shiver.

"M'achey just about everywhere, angel," she says with a performative pout thrown over her shoulder. In the brief glance she gets before she turns her face back toward the fire, she can see Aziraphale's gaze is half-lidded and trained on Crowley's hips.

"I see." There's a brief catch in the words. "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

Crowley hums in somewhat desperate agreement and rubs her shin up and down the angel's belly. "Go on, then," she says and wiggles her lightly scaled toes for added emphasis.

In response, Aziraphale places an open-mouthed kiss directly to Crowley's instep at the same time she circles the broad hand on Crowley's calf around up just past her knee. Crowley gasps as wide, blunt-tipped fingers grip the front of her thigh at the same time a thumb finds her hamstring and presses firmly. The pressure is immediate, sharp, and the dual sensations race up her leg like a tiny jolt of electricity and set her entire pelvis on fire.

"Ngk."

Aziraphale's breath puffs hot over the sole of her foot. "Do tell me if anything doesn't feel good. You took such good care of me this morning when I was feeling poorly. I want to take away all your aches as well."

She punctuates the words with firm, progressive squeezes up Crowley's thigh until her thumb is resting just below the scant swell of Crowley's arse. The hems of her gowns have dragged up along with Aziraphale's hand, and a waft of comparatively cooler air brushes against where she's hot and nearly dripping. Reflexively, her body clenches down on nothing.

"Ffffff-fuck's sake," Crowley growls and tries to arch her hips against the angel's hold. "Just touch me already."

"I am touching you," Aziraphale says, entirely too reasonably.

The tone sets Crowley's heart racing. It's going to be one of those encounters, she realizes with alarmed giddiness. Aziraphale normally engages in their sex life, as furtive and infrequent as it is, with the passionate abandon of a true hedonist. But sometimes her bastard streak will surface more markedly, and Crowley will have the infuriatingly delightful experience of being gently toyed with.

She braces with her free elbow and foot against the floor and her grip on the angel's leg and tries to push back with her whole body. Aziraphale's hand doesn't budge.

"Come on," she whines, squeezing along Aziraphale's ankle and sock-clad foot in desperate supplication.

Aziraphale ignores her and begins sweeping her thumb over the improbably sensitive skin of Crowley's upper thigh. Every few passes, a close-clipped thumbnail scritches against the rise of her arse, and while she doesn't think she's added any extra nerve endings to her corporation recently, it certainly feels like it.

Then, the grip shifts even higher up her leg and Crowley chokes off a moan. Now, there are knuckles just brushing the lower edges of her outer labia, tickling the hair there. Aziraphale digs her thumb into the meat of Crowley's lower arse and starts rubbing in firm, suggestive circles, and Crowley's core pulses wetly in sympathy.

"You bastard," she wheezes.

"Just being thorough."

But she must decide to take something close to pity, because she releases her grip to instead cup the entirety of Crowley's vulva and uses her whole hand to continue the same rhythmic circling her thumb had been performing previously. Crowley attempts to spread her legs and grind down, to get some direct friction, but Aziraphale merely shifts her fingers to gently grip her outer lips closed and keep everything teasingly muted. When Crowley whines in protest, squirming and twisting to feel something—anything—more direct, Aziraphale relents just a little and presses what must be the pad of her thumb against where Crowley's open and wet, letting it sink inside the barest centimeter. It's a tease and a relief all in one, and Crowley writhes against her angel's hand, groaning loud.

"Here, turn over," Aziraphale says, sounding breathless.

Crowley levers up and manages to flop shakily onto her back and tucks the pillow behind her head. When looks up, Aziraphale is focused, poised; her eyes glitter in the firelight as she waits for Crowley to finish settling. She's tucked her nearer leg up into a crane pose, creating a little triangle of lap space. Crowley barely has time to register the tableau before Aziraphale is reaching down and hauling her up by the hips to rest her arse in the nook she's made.

Crowley yelps and scrabbles behind her head to rescue the pillow. As she does, Aziraphale scoops the leg that should be resting over her lap up over her far shoulder like a lewd bandolier. She pauses to flash Crowley a toothy smile, face pleasantly flushed with heat of the fire and more, before she turns her face to start sucking an impressive love bite into the tender skin behind Crowley's knee.

"Blessed fuck!" Crowley yelps, grasping jointly at Aziraphale's stretched-out leg and the rug as she arches into the blooming pain-pleasure of the kiss.

Aziraphale hums around a chuckle and then moves her mouth an inch lower to start on another love bite, this time on Crowley's inner thigh.

Crowley's so focused on the picture of that beloved mouth fixed obscenely on her skin—working her over like she's a bit of sticky toffee on the end of a dessert spoon—that she misses what's going on with Aziraphale's other hand until she feels angelic fingers perfunctorily gathering and spreading her wetness around before a single finger sinks in, inexorable and deep. Crowley hisses and arches into the full feeling as the angel starts the sort of slow, dragging rhythm she knows drives Crowley wild.

She pounds her hand against the floor and chokes out a laughing moan.

"Angel, yeah, more— _please_."

Aziraphale hums back and rewards her with a second finger, increasing the feeling of urgent fullness. Meanwhile, the biting kisses are slowly progressing up her thigh, following the path of the tendon that leads straight to her groin, the sharp, tingling pressure sending an additional twang of sensation arrowing inward.

"C'mon," she begs and reaches blindly down toward her throbbing, neglected clit.

"Stop," Aziraphale commands, and Crowley pauses with an outraged whine. "Just a moment, dearest. I have something for you," Aziraphale promises, softer.

True to her word, she pauses her thrusting to dip the tip of her thumb inside instead. Once anointed, she returns her forefingers to their tortuously slow, pumping rhythm and hovers the pad of her thumb just above Crowley's clit. Crowley grunts and lifts her hips to close the distance, garnering a moment of glorious, slick pressure, but the thumb remains stubbornly still, and when she flops back onto the floor, Aziraphale doesn't follow her down.

"What," Crowley pants out, "the fuck?"

"For you," Aziraphale says, voice practically purring with smugness. "Take as much or as little as you like, exactly to your pleasure."

Crowley groans, half in frustration, half in the perverse delight she takes in seeing her angel's bastardly side, and arches her hips up to rub herself against the pad of Aziraphale's thumb again.

"And just how is this," she gasps, circling and lifting and trying to establish a firm counterpoint to the deep thrusts of Aziraphale's fingers, "any better—for _me_ —than just letting me get my hands on myself?" The heat's building quickly now, oozing like liquid through her hips and belly and thighs, even working up to lick at her peaked nipples chafing against the slick material of her negligee.

"I should think this is _far_ less work, darling," Aziraphale says, far too delighted and low-voiced as she lifts her head to favor her with a slightly feral grin. "Why, you aren't having to lift a finger."

Crowley opens her mouth to argue, _vehemently_ , but then Aziraphale folds in even further, keeping her eyes fixed on Crowley's, and lays blunt teeth perilously high up Crowley's inner thigh. Crowley feels her lungs seize up briefly and then start to bellow as she anticipates what's about to come. Aziraphale's eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased and impish, as she both acknowledges Crowley's increased desperation and gives it another moment to simmer. Then the angel bites down with exquisite care on the straining tendon standing out on Crowley's thigh at the same time she hooks her fingers deep and _pulls_.

Crowley howls as the extra bit of shocky almost-pain tips her over the edge. Her whole body locks up with near-electric pulses of sensation that make her curl desperately around Aziraphale's hand. The angel mercifully takes over ministrations to her clit, to keep the waves of pleasure rolling for as long as possible, until Crowley whimpers and Aziraphale gentles to a stop.

Crowley lies boneless on the rug and pants, the only tension in her entire body where her thighs are still clamped around Aziraphale's head and forearm to keep her hand in place. The angel, obligingly, keeps still, only resting her lips on Crowley's thigh as she lets Crowley keep hold of her, feel her, for as long as it takes to fully ground herself after such a strong orgasm.

"Shit," she finally manages, tone a little blurry around the consonants.

Aziraphale chuckles and leans back against the sofa, looking a little worn out around the edges herself. She hugs Crowley's whole thigh, still draped across her chest, close against her and presses a quick, chaste kiss to the side of her knee.

"Would you like a proper cuddle?" she asks after a moment, when Crowley's breathing has settled somewhat.

"Yeah, all right."

A bit of awkward maneuvering of noodly limbs and rearranging of clothing and quilts, and Crowley is able to avail herself of the plush softness of the angel's generous bosom. She nuzzles in, easily avoiding the pokey pearl buttons of the shirt thanks to decades of practice.

"Your turn?" she offers on a sigh, squeezing her angel tight and relishing the immediate, answering squeeze from the arms wrapped around her back and waist.

"In a moment," Aziraphale murmurs. "I'm afraid I need additional evidence regarding your tongue, and I want to be sure you're fully recovered so I can expect unflagging commitment."

Crowley snorts a laugh and begins mentally planning the rest of their snow day.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, taken from everyone's discourse fav, "Baby, It's Cold Outside."


End file.
